You Believe in Ghosts
by Charante Leclerc
Summary: BBC Sherlock. Post-Reichenbach. John doesn't believe in ghosts, but what will he believe after Sherlock reappears?
1. Messages and Microscopes

**Disclaimer**: I do not own, nor profit from.

**You believe in ghosts.**

John yawned. It had been a long day at the surgery. Work was him "establishing a routine", according to his therapist. Some form of him making closure. Moving on.

"It is a really good sign you're moving on from this." Had been her exact words. But he didn't want to look for closure. He had lost so much in the last year. Lestrade no longer called with cases. Mycroft never sent his sleek black cars after him. Mrs Hudson spent less and less time at 221, only barely saying hello to him. He knew they all still went to the grave. He saw new flowers there every Sunday. All these people were getting closure after Sherlock. John was doing the opposite. Submersing himself in a dead man.

He still saw him. Just a flash of a coat, or a glimpse of dark hair. These small sightings were what were keeping John sane. John laughed to himself quietly. Only after Sherlock Holmes would he think that was sane. He knew it was all in his head. Dead men don't just rise again. Dead men stay dead. But he still remembers. He still wants to see. Because if he didn't, that would be like forgetting Sherlock. Not believing in him. So he sees. To remember. To scream out a silent message at an unobservant world.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes".

He doesn't tell anyone he still sees his dead best friend. Not his therapist. Not Sarah. Not Mrs Hudson. No-one.

He walks up the steps to the front door, which still shows the shiny gold number of the house, 221B. At least those shiny gold numbers hadn't left him. It was some sort of continuity. He had considered moving out, in those first, desperately hard weeks. But he couldn't bring himself to. It was too much like accepting defeat. After he got better, more "normal", he had thought about trying to get himself a girlfriend. But that was like an insult to Sherlock's memory. Plus any potential girlfriends might get freaked out by the skull. Which was continually stolen by Mrs Hudson, and taken back by John.

He slowly walked up the stairs, noticing a newspaper outside Mrs Hudson's door again. _Maybe visiting her sister_. He walked into the flat, glancing around, making sure everything was how Sherlock had left it.

Skull – check. Purple shirt – check. Microscope – che- not check.

He quickly walked back into the lounge, making sure that it wasn't hiding anywhere. Even though a microscope is very hard to hide. Given its size. He couldn't see it. Panic was starting to build. He didn't want Sherlock's stuff to be touched. He wouldn't have wanted that. He ran into Sherlock's bedroom. Not in there. His bedroom. Not there either. He ran back down the lounge, frantically combing a hand through his sandy blonde hair. He took a few deep breaths.

"Think logically. Where could it be?" He paused, imaging where a microscope could possibly be. Bedrooms – no. Lounge – no. Attic – maybe.

John raced up to the attic, three steps at a time. After a couple of minutes frantic searching, he found the microscope. He let out a breath of relief, and the tears which he hadn't realised he had been holding back. He turned the microscope around, making sure there were no blemishes made on it. The only new thing was a note, written on a scrap of paper. John fumbled with the paper, his hands still shaking from his sobs a minute before. Four words were written there.

_Move on John. Please._

o0o

Mrs Hudson walked quietly up the stairs, and peered round the doorframe. She constantly worried about John. After Sherlock's death, instead of crying, grieving, he closed up. Refusing to believe he was hurting. The military had something to answer for, if she had had her way. She generally left John alone though. Every time she saw him, it seemed like Sherlock was there. Like a presence. She couldn't deal with losing him again. She knew John was hurt by it, but he seemed happier alone. That was why Sherlock's brother never came. That was why that nice DI never came. It was like looking at the past.

But she was worried about him.

Generally, she heard him moving, talking to no-one in particular, and hearing the telly. He had been back for hours, and not a movement. Not after that boisterous running, which was nearly 5 hours ago now. She knocked on the door. No answer.

"John?" She called, looking around. No sound. She moved into the living room. Not a thing out of place. She checked the kitchen. She checked Sherlock's bedroom. She left the flat, standing on the landing. She decided to check John's bedroom. She was standing outside his door when she felt a breath of air. She looked up the remaining set of stairs, and saw the skylight open. She poked her head up onto the roof, and saw John sitting on the edge of the roof. And she didn't go to him. She climbed down the stairs, and called two people. That nice DI, and Sherlock's brother. The last thing she said to Mycroft was to remind his brother that he was a git for leaving John. She promptly hung up.

o0o

Greg Lestrade stood on the roof of 221 Baker St. John Watson sat on the edge of that same roof. Greg just stood and watched, not wanting to break John's train of thoughts.

"And there was the time we played Cluedo. And Sherlock was insistent on the fact that Dr. Black was the murderer. That game ended up on the wall." John laughed, swinging his legs. Greg just carried on watching. John suddenly looked up at him.

"Do you believe in Paradise, Greg?"

Greg started, shock crossing his face. "I... umm... I dunno..." He trailed off lamely. This part of the job was what he hated most. Having to watch grief unfold when he told a family their loved one was never coming back home. Having to pick up the pieces. It didn't help when that was happening to someone you know in your personal life. It made it all that bit harder.

"Yes. Yes, I do believe in Paradise." Greg asserted. John looked up at him.

"Do you think Sherlock's there?" The question came out almost as a whisper. Greg winced at the pain in the voice.

"I think so. He's probably running around, chasing all the criminals he didn't catch before." Greg laughed, his voice catching slightly. He moved to sit down next to John, his legs dangling above the busy world below.

John thought to himself before replying, "I don't think he is though." John's voice grated on the silence. "I think he's still here. I think he wants to make sure we're okay." John's voice starts to tremble, only slightly. "Because he wasn't a sociopath. He did care." The tremble got louder, more noticeable.

"What he wouldn't be happy about though is his best friend sitting on a rooftop." Greg stated, watching John from the corner of his eyes. Something in John resolved itself then, his composure remaking itself.

"I just... I dunno, felt closer to him up here." John sighed. "It was either here, or the morgue. And dead bodies aren't the world's friendliest companions." Greg laughed, then stood up.

"I do believe in ghosts. And I do think Sherlock's around here. He's probably been solving all the crimes down at the Met, then getting frustrated when we don't pay attention, and then bringing body parts back to the flat." John thought about this.

"I don't think I believe in ghosts as such. I think I just believe in Sherlock Holmes." John sighed again. Greg waited, and watched this broken man lose another piece of himself.

"Coming back inside?" He asked, holding out his hand. John waited for a few seconds, then took the offered hand, and hauled himself back up.

"Lead the way."

o0o


	2. Security

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Authors Note: I am REALLY sorry this chapter took so long to put up. It was due to be put up a few weeks ago, but it didn't really work, so I deleted it. Then exams hit, so nothing till now. This chapter was really difficult to write in the end (Chapter 2, you are my nemesis!), but I am eventually happy with it. I'm going to try and stay to a chapter a week, but may not stay true to that (earlier/later – whichever). I've also changed the title to ****You Believe in Ghosts****, as doesn't like punctuation in the titles apparently. So, enjoy!**

Chapter 2

Mycroft sighed, resting his chin on his fingers. _Sherlock's mannerism,_ he thought subconsciously. It was funny what could be picked up. He had found himself copying more and more of Sherlock's mannerisms. Greg once complained that he couldn't cope with Sherlock seemingly haunting him from the grave through Mycroft. Mycroft had spent the night in his office.

Mycroft slightly turned his head when he heard the slight noise of someone entering his office.

"Yes, Anthea?" Was it even Anthea today? Maybe it was Georgina. Or Caroline.

"I'm afraid that Anthea is unavoidably detained." A sing-song voice sounded, cutting through the silence. Mycroft stiffened. He slowly raised his head, and found himself seeing into the dark eyes of James Moriarty. Moriarty's face lit up.

"Surprised?" There was a hint of dark amusement in his voice, his eyes dancing.

"How did you get in here?" Mycroft questioned, his voice hoarse.

"Now now, that'd be telling." Moriarty walked his way round the desk, until he was standing right behind Mycroft. "And I never share secrets. You know that." Moriarty breathed into Mycroft's ear, sending shivers down Mycroft's spine.

Mycroft stood up sharply. "You died. You shot yourself in the head and you _died_, Jim. How can you just walk in here like nothing's changed?" He was face to face with Moriarty, nose to nose. _Kissing distance_. Mycroft mentally shook his head. _He's not your lover anymore. He lost that right when he blew his brains out._

Moriarty's lips quirked upwards, like he could read Mycroft's mind. Just like he could before. He could always read him like an open book.

"How did you survive?" A quirk of the lips. A pause, the silence was deafening.

"Do you honestly think I would shoot myself? For anyone? For _Sherlock_?" A giggle. "Oh, you're _jealous._ How sweet." His voice climbed higher.

"You didn't answer my question. _How did you survive?_" A sudden anger gripped hold of Mycroft, taking a step towards the man.

"It was an empty gun. I wore a wig, underneath was a blood bag. Triggered at a certain frequency. The frequency triggered by the unloaded gun. Too simple, yet no-one knew. No-one _guessed!_" An insane chuckle, bouncing around the room. No-one had bother to check Moriarty's body. _Richard Brook's body_. The only people who would have bothered to properly check his body were preoccupied with another. John, too calm, too pale. Mycroft, dealing with grieving parents. Lestrade, wrapped in his guilt. No wonder Moriarty's deception slipped through their fingers. The world was too busy being shocked at the suicide of the world's only Consulting Dective. _"The Fall of a Genius."_ That was how the newspapers had portrayed it. No cover of the other body of the dangerous game Moriarty and Sherlock had played.

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked, tired of Moriarty's games. Moriarty smirked.

"Are you that bored of me so soon Mycroft? I thought I might be refreshing after that _nice_ DI." Moriarty's smile turned sinister, a flick of the switch.

Mycroft suppressed a shudder, stopped an outburst at Moriarty's scorn of Greg.

"What do you want?" Mycroft repeated, stepping away from Moriarty. Moriarty gave a small shrug of his shoulders.

"I want your brother to disappear." His voice was bland, showing no emotion. Mycroft stopped, not daring to breathe.

"Pardon?" Mycroft breathed. Moriarty's sinister smile was back, etched into his face.

"You didn't know?" He sounded positively gleeful. "Your brother is alive."

Mycroft slowly shook his head. "You're lying."

A short burst of laughter erupted, Moriarty shaking his head. Back, forth, back, forth. A ghost of a breath on his lips, a sliver of sound.

A pause. _Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

Moriarty slowly licked his lips, tasting sweet anticipation. Mycroft followed the journey, a shiver shocking through him. He knew exactly how sweet those lips tasted.

Sherlock. Sherlock falling. John's screams echoing in his ears. Blood on the pavement, spreading, oozing. He had watched the CCTV, rewatched, again, again. He heard John's screams in his sleep, echoed by his own, Greg trying to calm him. Sherlock, his eyes glassy, his pale, pale skin. Too pale. Their parents, it was too much for his mother seeing the body, she had fallen to the floor, silent sobs shaking her, her hand in Sherlock's. Their father couldn't look at the body, just at Mycroft, sorrow etched in his eyes.

Had that all been for nothing?

Moriarty's eyes were dancing, a predator, something lurking. Cold, calculating. "I want your brother to run away. He's been causing me some headaches. I want him dealt with."Moriarty sneered.

"How?" Mycroft whispered. Moriarty looked confused.

"Pardon? Could you speak up? I didn't quite hear you there." Moriarty put his hand behind his ear, leaning slightly closer.

"How did he survive?" A croaked, a shadow of his voice.

"Oh, that was what you said. I don't know. Ask him yourself." He shrugged, his face impassive. "All I know is that he is causing me some problems. But you see, I can't do much without bringing the spotlight back onto myself. And as much as I like the star of the show, my empire, my _business_, runs in the shadows. And as much as I _love_ these games, these dances that Sherlock and I have, trying to destroy him for a third time, however lucky it may be, it will not be beneficial for me." Moriarty drew closer, just a few breaths away, his hand resting on Mycroft's chest. He stroked his hand down, Mycroft drew in a shaky breath.

"I wouldn't know where to find him. I wouldn't know where to look." Moriarty shook his head.

"No, no, no, wrong answer." He leaned in ever closer. "I think you can find him_ if you really try._" Moriarty breathed the last words, his lips ghosting over Mycroft's ear.

_Sherlock's alive. My brother is alive. Sherlock. Sherlock didn't fall. He didn't jump. He's still alive._

"He's in London." It wasn't a question. Moriarty leered, shark-like.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out." Mycroft frowned.

"I thought you wanted me to _help_ you. And you're playing the same games that you played with Sherlock. The same games that sent him to his apparent _death_." Moriarty smirked.

"Games? These aren't games. This is business." Moriarty's voice had taken on a dangerous tone, his dark eyes flashing.

_Sherlock left. Sherlock didn't leave just me, he left his family. He left John. If he truly cared, he wouldn't have left. Not without someone knowing._

"I'll find him." There was certainty, a hollow, dead tone to Mycroft's voice. Moriarty backed off, gentle, insane laughter.

"Good boy." The gentle whisper was flung back into the room, dragging the silence with it.

o0o


	3. Crescendo

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Authors Note: I really do feel bad for not updating for ages, so I spent most of the day working on this (Study leave really is good!). Sorry if there seems random pairings everywhere, there are hints to Mystrade (Mycroft/Lestrade), and there was past Mycroft/Moriarty in this fic. I also upped the rating because of the themes of suicide in this chapter. Next chapter will be up soon-ish, some of my favourite works are due to be updated, so I'll spend a long time reading the new chapter, reading the whole fic again, angsting out about needing a new chapter, rereading again... You get the picture. Enjoy!**

Crescendo

"_This is my note."_

"No, Sherlock, no..."

"_Don't move..."_

"**Sherlock, please, don't..."**

"_Goodbye, John."_

"**NO!"**

John started awake, panicked. His face was wet, his t-shirt sticking to him. The darkness glared at him. He put his hands to his face, his body shaking as he sobbed. There was no-one here to hear John's sorrow, to hear his grief. Lestrade had temporarily moved in for the first few hard weeks after Sherlock's death, but he had quickly moved into Mycroft's house. He probably couldn't handle the guilt he felt for his part in Sherlock's death. If he hadn't listened to Donovan, to Anderson, Lestrade still believed that Sherlock would still be standing, still be living. John gave a humourless chuckle.

_Nothing stood in Moriarty's way when he wanted you dead._

John knew that Lestrade was suffering in his own way too. Apparently Mycroft was coping, but barely, Lestrade said.

_Serve him right, the bastard._

Mycroft had turned up at 221b mere days after Sherlock jumped. It was the first time John moved from Sherlock's bedroom. Mycroft left fairly quickly, with the added bonus of a broken nose. He hadn't seen him again. He knew Mrs Hudson had called Mycroft when he had found the... _Sherlock's_ note. He'd sent Lestrade.

_Coward._

The shaking sobs slowed, he could breathe a bit more. He moved towards the kitchen, his plan to get a glass of water. He would normally have tea, but there was no milk. There was no-one to tell him to go to Tesco anymore. And however much he moved the skull, it didn't quite work the same.

He leaned against the cool worktop, swirling the water around in the glass aimlessly. It was easy, not having to think, to remember what to do every waking minute. Walking, working, breathing. It all suffocated him, pulling him back, stopping him.

_Why should you have the right to do the things he's not? The things he can't? The things he'll never do again?_

_Why that right indeed?_

Sherlock had left him with nothing. Yes, he had material objects. The skull, his clothes, his scientific equipment. John held on to them because Sherlock had left him with nothing. No explanation. No reason. Just a jump and other people's pity. 5 months, and all he saw in people's eyes was the pity. At the surgery, Scotland Yard, even his own sister. He was the one with the best friend who had gone roof jumping.

_Look at what you've left me with Sherlock. A shell of a life. It's vast, empty, without you._

He moved slowly back into the living room, staring at the skull. All those conversations that John had never heard. How lonely he must have been. John peered closely at the skull (Oliver, as he had started to fondly call it). The moonlight shone on a small, white scrap of paper, trapped in Oliver's jaws. John prised it away, dread bubbling in his stomach.

"_Don't throw your life away."_

Shock stunned him, his breath sharp and heavy. Silence engulfed him, screaming at him, those five words being flung in his face.

_This is how it's going to be Sherlock? Every time I get a bit more healed, a bit more certain with life, you throw these... these... notes back into my face?_

_Screw you._

John crumpled the small sheet in his palm, and let it fall. He stood motionless, a few seconds, it seemed like hours. Slow, cautious, certain movements lead him back to his room. His fingers shaking as they undid a lock. If Sherlock was going to play this sick joke on him, a game, like Moriarty, then it was the least John could do to end it on his own terms. He couldn't live in this constant fear of not knowing what was around the corner. Sherlock? Risen from the dead, haunting him, shadowing him, conducting this dance, this _play_, John could make sure he played no part in it. The last time he had engaged in this, Sherlock had ended up falling – jumping – from a rooftop. These games killed you. They turned you into broken men. They played with your mind. Manipulated you. Maybe it wasn't Sherlock. Maybe Moriarty himself, the composer, the arranger. He lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce. He was one to toy, to lead on and on, waiting for the perfect moment to bring the crescendo down on you.

Whichever way, he was a dead man walking.

He'd soon solve that.

Make it less entertaining. Make them _bored_. Make them wonder.

_What must it be like in your tiny little brains?_

John was finally answering that question. He put his hand in the box, shakily pulling out his pistol. He sucked in a breath of air, sweet, too heavy. He raised his hand, felt the cool metal against his lips.

_Tastes like blood._

_Tastes like death._

He raised his hand higher, opening his mouth, the metal against the roof of his tongue.

_Goodbye Sherlock._

His hand tightened on the trigger, smooth metal against calloused skin. His heart grew louder, his breathing hitched.

One. Two. _Goodbye..._

"JOHN?" A voice screamed, panicked, hoarse. John closed his eyes, his smile biting on the pistol.

_The conductor came._

"JOHN?" The words seemed closer now, urgency slicing through the rooms, muffled, fevered movements.

John laughed, quiet and echoing. The movements stilled, sensing. They started again in fresh pursuit, every footfall growing ever louder. A crescendo.

A tall, dark figure paused at the doorway, out of breath, perfectly rumpled. John continued to laugh, insanity starting to creep into the edges. The figure took a step forwards, out of the shadows. A pause, a heartbeat.

"John?" The voice that could be smoother than velvet, broken and brittle. Another cautious step. John slowly opened his eyes, laughter glinting at the figure.

"John. Please, put down the gun." Another step, hand outstretched. John slowly lowered his hand, and placed the pistol in the porcelain palm. The figure turned, placing the gun down on the dresser.

"You destroyed me. Do you know that. Does that comprehend?" The figure turned his head, sorrow etched across his face.

"I know." John blanched. He hadn't expected to hear that answer.

"I'll stop the notes." Another surprise. The figure turned away, and headed for the door.

_No. It can't be happening again. It can't. I won't let it._

"Sherlock?" The question came out hoarse and pleading. Sherlock stopped, perfectly still. He turned back to John, mild curiosity written upon his face. John pulled in a breath, his voice hitching on the next word, his voice hoarse and pleading.

"Stay?"


	4. Revelations

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Authors Note: Sorry this chapter is slightly late, I had to write it out long hand as I had no internet for the past 4 days. I think I started showing withdrawal symptoms. It wasn't pretty. I also wanted to say that I am on Tumblr (type in "charanteleclerc" to Google), and I will be taking prompts, alongside You Believe in Ghosts. I am also starting a FrostIron fanfiction, so keep an eye out for it! Enjoy!**

Revelations

John could see the tension behind Sherlock's eyes, coiled like a spring. Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable.

"I'm not sure if that is such a good idea John." John winced at the pain underneath those words.

"It may not be a good idea. But a worse one would be to let you walk out that door and out of my life again."

"Technically, I fell..." Sherlock promptly stopped after a menacing glare from John."

"You know_ exactly_ what I mean." Sherlock hung his head. The silence stretched out between them.

"Your bedroom is exactly how you left it." Sherlock nodded absentmindedly.

"Thank you." John frowned.

"What for? It's not that difficult to upkeep a bedroom no-one uses."_ Of course you don't use that room. You only hide in there once a month, once a week, every day..._

Sherlock smiled slightly, a smooth quirk of the lips that John had missed so badly.

"Not just for the bedroom. A lot of people wouldn't be so... understanding, and just let me back into their lives like you are." John nodded at his feet.

"I'm glad you didn't say forgiving. I might have kicked you back out again. Sherlock grinned a smile, his whole face lighting up.

"Precisely why I didn't."

And John couldn't do anything but laugh.

o0o

John blinked awake in the morning light, a little disorientated. He dragged a hand through his short sandy blonde hair. He glanced over towards his alarm clock, sitting beside a cup of tea. 7:04am.

Wait a minute... cup of tea?

He didn't remember getting up and making himself a cup of tea. Unless he'd suddenly taken to sleepwalking.

"_Precisely why I didn't." Sherlock had amusement glinting in his eyes. John was laughing, his voice a little hoarse. Sherlock joined in too, his velvet laughter mingling with John's, in perfect harmony._

Sherlock.

Sherlock had returned to him.

His Sherlock. Back from the dead. Back from that fall. Back.

John stumbled down the stairs into the living room, scanning the room quickly. The cushions on the sofa were slightly ruffled, a blanket strewn across the seats. John stared at the scene, his breath taken away by those small details that meant that Sherlock was still here.

"John?" Sherlock stood in the doorway the kitchen, holding another cup of tea.

"Sherlock." There was no underlying message, no pain. Just a simple affirmation that he was still here. Sherlock's eyes John's face, registering every emotion that played across his face. John smiled. Sherlock's eyes creased in confusion.

"What?" Sherlock looked down at himself, checking he hadn't spilt tea over himself. This lay with John badly. John had never seen Sherlock so insecure. John always looked at Sherlock strangely. Sherlock had always either ignored it or shrugged it off with some sort of comment about John's idioticy. But Sherlock had never been insecure. Far from it. He always bordered arrogance.

Before he knew what he was doing, John strode across the gap separating them, and enveloped the stunned detective in a hug. Sherlock froze for a moment, then slowly leaned into the embrace, awkwardly wrapping his arms around the shorter man.

"Don't." John whispered. Sherlock stiffened, frowning in surprise.

"Don't what?" A quiet question slipped from the detective's lips.

"Don't stop being you." John mumbled into Sherlock's purple shirt. _The Purple Shirt of Sex, as dubbed by Sherlock's fans, _John wryly thought._ What wouldn't they give to be in my position?_

Sherlock gently smiled into John's shoulder, smelling in John's scent of tea, coconut and wool. John had missed this scent so badly when he had been away from John in those 8 months. A scent of security, of warmth.

It was also the smell of home, love and acceptance. And Sherlock never wanted to let go.

John felt Sherlock slowly draw back, but Sherlock's grip around his waist didn't relax. John looked up into the detectives face, and saw emotions flitting across his face, emotions he couldn't pinpoint. There was hope, hesitation, Sherlock seemingly having an inner conflict.

Oh.

Sherlock started to lean in slightly, and John involuntarily stiffened. Sherlock picked up on it instantly, and moved back to his original position. John backed out of Sherlock's grasp, and turned back towards the stairs.

He didn't look back down until he was behind his closed, locked door.

o0o

Did Sherlock really feel that way about him? Sherlock had never felt that way about anyone. The closest anyone had got to Sherlock was Irene Adler, but that was only admiration at the most. The man was a self-proclaimed sociopath for Pete's sake! He didn't feel emotions of that kind.

But what if he did now? Had disappearing for 8 months changed him that much Had it been seeing John with a gun inside his mouth?

He knew that the git probably wouldn't make another move after he had stiffened and run out on Sherlock. He had been confused. Scared. Shocked. But he did care for Sherlock, so deeply. He worried about Sherlock's health, whether he was safe or not. He would take a bullet for the man. He relaxed around Sherlock in a way that he did around no-one else. He felt a fierce need to protect Sherlock, to defend him even if Sherlock himself scorned him for it.

John slowly slid down the back of the door, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

_He loved Sherlock Holmes._

John sat there immobile, unthinking, just those four words swirling round in his head. He heard footsteps on the stairs, descending to the front door.

_Sherlock._

"SHERLOCK!" The footsteps stilled, hesitant. John rushed down the stairs, three steps at a time. Sherlock stood, one pale hand resting on the doorknob. John stood directly in front of him, staring into Sherlock's lowered face.

"Where do you think you're going?" John questioned. Sherlock's eyes fluttered towards the door under his long, dark lashes.

"I don't want to inconvenience you any longer, John. It's best if I just left." Sherlock whispered, still refusing to meet John's gaze.

"Inconvenience me? Sherlock, you walking back into this flat was the best thing that has happened to me in months! If you left again, I **wouldn't** cope. I can't do without you Sherlock." John stepped closer to the porcelain statue of his best friend. "I just can't."

Sherlock's gaze finally swept up to John's face. "John, I..." Sherlock exhaled deeply, his face furrowing. "John. I can't stay while knowing that what I want is impossible. I can't do that John. It's not fair on you."

John moved ever closer, raising a hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, rubbing a thumb over the pale cheekbone.

"John..." Sherlock breathed, a hint of pleading in his tone.

John stretched up on pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Sherlock's pale lips. Sherlock leant into the kiss, one hand lacing itself in John's sandy, unkempt hair, the other wrapping itself around the shorter mans waist. John moaned into the kiss, pressing himself up against Sherlock. He slowly pulled away then, Sherlock whimpering at the loss of contact. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's gently pushing the taller man's curls out of the way.

"Stay." John repeated his request of the previous night, his voice little more than a ragged whisper. Sherlock smiled, genuine.

"It would be my pleasure."


	5. A Day in the Life

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Author's Note: Half way through guys! I hit my 5,000 word mark in this chapter, so hopefully the fic will be more than 10,000. This chapter is up a lot quicker than the last one. I'd pretty much written for most of the previous few days, so it just needed typing up and a few adjustments. This chapter is mainly just an evolution of John and Sherlock's relationship, bit of a filler chapter. The next few chapters will be filled up with a case, I'm just plotting the details at the minute. Enjoy!**

A Day in the Life

John snuggled further down into the duvet, wrapping himself around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock himself absentmindedly traced patterns into John's bare back, turning his face to bury into John's hair.

"Are you smelling my hair Sherlock?" John's voice was muffled, barely containing laughter. Sherlock gave a short chuckle, his voice rough from sleep. Or lack of.

"It smells like you. I missed it." John smiled into Sherlock's chest.

"Hmmm? What do I smell like then?"

"Tea. And coconut. And wool. It's very John-like." John snorted. Sherlock chuckled again, his chest rumbling. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's waist, Sherlock pressed a kiss into John's hair. John turned, resting his chin on Sherlock.

"Good morning." John smiled up.

"It is, isn't it?" Sherlock replied, rubbing his hand against the small of John's back.

"Hmmm..." John closed his eyes, leaning into Sherlock's touch. Sherlock continued his massage.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, sleepy.

"Yes, John?"

"How did you survive?" The question chilled Sherlock, stilled him enough for John to notice. He peered up at Sherlock. He sat up, staring at the fear in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock slowly raised himself, crossing his legs on the bed, the duvet pooled in his lap.

"I jumped. But I never hit the ground. There was a skip nearby, just close enough. It was full of Styrofoam nearby, enough to break my fall. I landed in that." Sherlock stared at his feet, unwilling to meet John's gaze. John swallowed hard.

"So, who was that body?" Sherlock fiddled with his fingers.

"Someone from the morgue. Molly helped. We made the body look like me, prosthetics from her amateur drama group. She pushed it out of a lover window. No-one questioned it, as all the pedestrians nearby were all part of the homeless network." John nodded, still coming to terms with the intricacy of the plan, how many people were involved in deceiving him.

"Why Molly? Why not me?" A touch of accusation crept into John's tone.

"It was Moriarty's final game. His final hurrah. He wanted to see me fall from the public grace, so badly that I couldn't have a place in the affections of the media again. Literally. And if I didn't..." Sherlock paused, breathing hard. "There were snipers trained on Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you. The three people I cared about. The only person who could call them off was Moriarty. He shot himself. In the head. Like you were going to. I had to disappear. You couldn't help. If you'd acted like I'd died, they would have known something was amiss. Your acting skills leave a lot to be desired." John smirked at the words. Sherlock could always turn something into an insult.

"You had to believe I'd died. Otherwise, you'd have a bullet in your head. And I couldn't risk your life, John. It's far too precious." Sherlock was still glaring at his feet, a tinge of red creeping up his neck, staining his chest. John rested a hand in Sherlock's dark curls, tangling his fingers in them.

"Sherlock." The dark-haired man raised his head until he was level with John's gaze.

"I may not have forgiven you. But I understand. And I'm not going to leave you over this. I'll forgive you eventually." Sherlock slowly nodded.

"I'm sorry." The detective murmured. John frowned slightly. "For hurting you. I'm sorry I hurt you." Sherlock clarified. John burst into a full grin, spreading across his face.

"The great Sherlock Holmes, apologizing? Are you sure you didn't knock your head?" Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't deserve you. You can do so much better than me." John shook his head, grasping Sherlock's face in his hands, tracing circles over the pale cheeks.

"I love _**you**_. I love you when you're sulking. I love you when you're solving cases. I love you when you're bored. I love you when you are being outrageous and brilliant and _**you**_. So don't give me that crap about deserving better. There is no-one better than you. You're not getting rid of me that easily." John leaned forward and claimed the cool lips in a deep kiss. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's waist, pulling him closer until both of their bare chests were touching. Sherlock moaned as John's tongue explored the inside of his mouth, experimenting. They parted, breathing heavily, foreheads pressed against each other.

"I love you John." Sherlock whispered to his lover. John smiled.

"I know Sherlock. I know."

o0o

John leant against the doorway, watching Sherlock move around the kitchen, his fluid movements hurried. Sherlock wore a frown, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the ends of his pyjama bottoms trailing round his ankles. John cast a glance around the disaster area Sherlock had turned the kitchen into, with smoke pouring out of the oven, ingredients everywhere, the worktops covered in flour.

"Sherlock?" A distracted, non-committal sound came from the detective. "What exactly are you doing?" The amusement was seeping into John's tone, but the dark-haired man missed it, still agitated.

"I was trying to make dinner." Sherlock cast an arm around the room. John snorted. Sherlock grimaced.

"At 3 in the afternoon?" Sherlock shrugged.

"People always used to eat dinner in the afternoon in the Victorian era. There's no need to put a definitive time on it." John was by now barely suppressing hysterics, controlling himself long enough to turn off the oven before it exploded. He gripped onto the table, bent double with laughter, Sherlock glaring at him. John slowly straightened up, his face red, contrasting with his blonde hair.

"How... How about we open some windows, and at... attempt to tidy this..." John gestured, too overcome. "Then order a Chinese?" Sherlock hung his head slightly.

"I suppose so." He agreed, sounding forlorn.

"Hey." John calmed himself down, walking over to Sherlock. "It was a lovely gesture. But you don't need to do it. The most I could ever want as a token of affection from you is to tidy up after experiments, or maybe get the milk from Tesco's once in a while. That all, you do not need to go to all this trouble. Especially as it seems cooking for you is like acting for me." He pressed a kiss into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock rested his head on John's, smiling into the sandy hair.

"I'll try." Sherlock mumbled. John breathed a chuckle, and gave Sherlock a slight push.

"Now go and find that takeaway pamphlet. As Sherlock loped out of the kitchen, John walked over to the fridge to get the milk. He needed a cup of tea before dealing with the mess. Pulling it open, he saw fingers floating in a bowel of orange juice. He heaved a sigh. Oh, it was nice to see Sherlock back.


	6. Brainteaser

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Author's Note: And finally, a case ensuses! Had this brainwave about 3am yesterday morning, and starting writing this chapter then. I have used real addresses, so I am really sorry if I offend anyone. I tried to think of public places, but they didn't really work with the plot. So sorry again, and enjoy!**

Brainteaser

Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa, resting his head on John's lap, the dark curls pooling out. John aimlessly stroked Sherlock's fringe out of the detective's eyes, engrossed in his latest novel. Sherlock fidgeted, finally nestling his nose into John's jumper. They sat, the silence laying over them, until Sherlock huffed a sigh. John rested his book on the arm rest. He peered questioningly down at the taller man. Sherlock glimpsed John's look out of the corner of his eye.

"Bored." The word was mumbled into John's jumper. John returned to his novel.

"But I'm _bored_ John."

"Yes Sherlock. I heard the first time. Something will turn up. It always does." Sherlock huffed another sigh, electing to ignore John. The door to the flat opened slightly, and Mrs Hudson peered in.

"John, dear, the post's arrived. There's something from Austria. Addressed to Sherlock." John waved her in, and took the post off her.

"Thanks Mrs Hudson." He smiled at her, and she moved to go back downstairs. John passed the letter to Sherlock, who sat up and read the contents. A smile, a dangerous smile started to spread across his face. John peered over Sherlock's shoulder, a frown creasing on his face. A few calligraphic words were written on a piece of expensive writing paper.

_5. 8SE. I hear New Zealand is lovely at this time of the year. xx_

"What the hell does that mean?" Sherlock jumped up, stepping over the table, bringing his hands up to his face.

"This John, this is a lead." Sherlock span around. "Oh, it's beautiful. Exquisite. A mixture of words and numbers. It's a _quest_!" Sherlock's face was radiant, his genius spilling out. It was like watching a child discover a shiny new toy, a whole new world suddenly opened up.

"Right. So, any clues how to solve it? And how did the person know you were here?" Sherlock waved his hand.

"I'm a wanted man by a lot of Moriarty's empire. I haven't been overly quiet since my disappearance. And as to solving it, I have 7 theories on the first numbers. The words, not sure yet. The numbers and the words have to have some sort of link. The words aren't quotes. So they must be some sort of reference. The three part code, part of a postcode?" Sherlock paused, rubbing fingers. "What's in New Zealand? What is there that has some reference to Britain?" John shrugged.

"Sheep? They have a lot of sheep." Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no. Too simple, too abstract. There's not enough stability." Sherlock grabbed John's laptop.

**Google:** 8SE

**Results:** Celestron NexStar 8SE Computerised Telescope

**Google Maps:** 8SE

**Results:** Did you mean: _8SE, Seattle, King, WA, USA_?

**Google Maps:** London WSE

**Results: **Royal Borough of Greenwich, London, SE10 8SE

"John, we have a lead." Sherlock span the laptop round of his hand until the screen was facing the shorter man.

"Greenwich? What's in Greenwich?" Sherlock grinned.

"I don't know. That's what we're going to find out." Sherlock set the laptop down, grabbing his scarf and coat. John stood there, shell-shocked.

"Come **on** John. We have a case!" The words were flung back up the stairs. John shook his head, grabbing his coat, and followed after Sherlock.

o0o

Sherlock jumped out of the cab on Royal Hill, twirling on the pavement. John tumbled out after him, scanning his eyes down the street. Sherlock turned back to John.

"What's in New Zealand?" Sherlock repeated his earlier question, staring intently at John.

"Ummm... New Zealand people? Maori? The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?" Sherlock stopped.

"Repeat that last part." John gazed at Sherlock, open mouthed.

"The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?" Sherlock suddenly jumped in the air, grabbed John and kissed him quickly.

"You. Are. A. Genius!" John was really gobsmacked now, staring at Sherlock as if he had grown another head.

"What on earth has CS Lewis got to do with anything?"

"Nothing."

"So why did you ask me to repeat 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe'?"

"You were on the right train of thought. But not CS Lewis."

"Who then?"

"J.R.R Tolkien." John tried to remember the name from his English Literature secondary school lessons.

"Tolkien... Tolkien... Lord of the Rings. He wrote Lord of the Rings!" Sherlock smiled.

"Well done. And what do you think the number has got to do with the books?"

"I would say 5th in the series. But there is no 5th book. 5th page?" Sherlock was grinning by now.

"Exactly. The 5th page. So we need to know what is on the 5th page of the books." Sherlock whipped out his phone, thumbing through. John watched him, his eyes tracing the concentration in the detectives eyes. Sherlock raised the phone to John's eye line. He quickly read through the page.

"But Middle Earth doesn't exist. It's fantasy." Sherlock was gazing at a place past John's shoulder. John turned on the spot, and looked towards the corner of a street.

**The Hill**

Oh.

"The Hill. 5th page, 1st line. The Hobbit." John gazed at Sherlock, then leaned up and gave the detective and short kiss.

"You're amazing, you know that?" John laced his hand with Sherlock's, and allowed himself to be dragged along to the restaurant. A small note was placed in the corner of the window, the same expensive writing paper, the elegant writing depicting the name Sherlock. Sherlock picked up the note, scanning the words three times, assimilating the information.

_13. 5HA. Don't try the meat. May your souls find all. xx_

John ran a hand through his hair, giving him the appearance of a hedgehog.

"13... 13..." Sherlock mumbled, unfocused. John glanced sideways.

"How many theories left?" John murmured to his lover, giving him a tight squeeze of their intertwined hands. Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes becoming sharper.

"2. If I'm correct in assuming that the sequence is a sequence of prime numbers."

"What does it mean by 'May your souls find all'?" Sherlock replied without glancing up.

"He's giving us a street nearby. It's coded." Sherlock stilled, his eyes closed, breathing shallow.

"All Souls." John's face was covered by confusion.

"Pardon, what?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"All Souls Avenue. NW10. The postcode is NW10 5HA. Our next clue lies there." They stared at each other for a long, pulled out second, then simultaneously rushed towards a cab just pulling up.

o0o

Sherlock leapt out the cab, clearing the railing in one smooth moment. The detective waited on the corner, watching the doctor catch up.

"What does it mean by 'Don't try the meat'?" John questioned, as Sherlock took in the scenery, his eyes not dissimilar to a hawk watching for prey. "I mean, it's a book reference obviously, but what book?"

"Lord of the Flies." Sherlock answered, not concentrating. When John didn't answer, Sherlock glanced at him.

"You've never heard of Lord of the Flies?" John slowly shook his head. Sherlock heaved a sigh.

"Group of boys get shipwrecked on an island in World War Two. They basically turn into savages and start killing each other." John's mouth fell open.

"That's a... a... lovely plot." Sherlock shrugged.

"It's interesting." John's shock was still apparent, Sherlock smiled.

"It never really happened, John. Don't look so worried." John was still looking unconvinced.

"So... an island." Sherlock murmured his assent. John gestured to the restaurant nearby. "It's called The Island?" Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"John, we've found our next clue!" Sherlock dived towards the wicker, his cloak billowing out behind him. The detective extracted a note, the same elegant paper, from the wicker, and read over what was written. Sherlock stiffened, his face taut.

"What?" He gained no answer. "Sherlock, _what_?" Sherlock turned to face the doctor.

"They've upped the stakes." John yanked the paper from Sherlock's hands.

_17. Rd. I've got a little girl who put her faith in the wrong person. Realise quickly where your intentions lie. Xx_


	7. Onwards and Upwards

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Author's Note: Again, really sorry, but I have used real places again. One is a public place though. The case will be wrapped up in the next chapter, and we are only 3 chapters from the end now! Also, please ignore the review from Boo o. That was my sister, who thinks fanfiction is evil. I told I wasn't taking her to the One Direction concert. She wasn't happy. Also, I'm on Tumblr as charanteleclerc, and I take prompts. I'm not overally good coming up for idea's for short stories, and it would be nice to have a break from my long stories! Enjoy!**

Onwards and Upwards

John froze inside, rereading the note. This had quickly turned from into a game, nothing more than a game, into something deadly.

"Sherlock." Sherlock didn't answer, his pale complexion nothing more than ashen now. "Sherlock!" Fearful eyes turned on each other.

"I don't know. I don't know, John." John glared at Sherlock, anger laced in his eyes.

"There are bloody **lives** at stake. You are Sherlock Holmes. Think of something." John hissed, menacing. Sherlock took a step back, shocked at the menace in John's voice. He moved his gaze back down to the paper, the elegant handwriting.

"_Do you love the soul or the appearance?_" Sherlock turned to John. "Does that ring any bells? What book would that be from?"

"I don't know. Sounds more like a romantic novel. Classic?" Sherlock frowned.

"Might be Austen. Do you anyone who's read Austen?" John stared at the detective.

"You've never read Austen." Sherlock shot an exasperated look at John.

"I might have. I delete everything that is non-consequential. I can't store everything. Why, have you?" John blushed.

"Maybe when I was in upper school." Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow.

"I was trying to impress a girl. She was obsessed with Austen. I read all of the books. She dumped me after a week." Sherlock snorted.

"That sounds so like you. You didn't try and write poetry, did you? Cause that would be enough to put _anyone_ off." John pushed Sherlock's shoulder.

"Shut up." A blush was staining John's cheeks.

"Do you know them well enough?" John shook his head.

"I haven't read them since upper school. I can't even remember half of the plots." Sherlock moaned.

"Who else would read them?" John suddenly reached into his pockets. Sherlock frowned. John held up his mobile.

"Your brother is calling."

"Cut him off."

John mocked frowned.

"Don't be mean."

"He shouldn't have betrayed me."

"He's sorry."

"So?" John still answered the phone, despite Sherlock's protests.

"Hey, Mycroft."

"John. How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks. You?"

"I'm fine." Mycroft's tone was surprised. "I was just wondering how you were coping after the... rooftop incident. Greg said you were pretty cut up." John laughed.

"I know. I was just feeling low. You don't have to worry anymore."

"Okay." Mycroft sighed. "I'll talk to you later."

"Thanks." John was prepared to end the call, when he was struck with a sudden thought. "Mycroft, do you know anything about Austen?"

"Pardon?" John chuckled.

"Austen. It's for a... game show."

"Okay. What do you need to know." Mycroft suppressed the surprise, always the professional.

"We have a line that refers to an Austen book. _'Do you love the soul or the appearance?'_" A pause followed.

"Hmmm... that's probably a reference to _Jane Eyre._" John grinned, and mimed a thumbs up at Sherlock. Sherlock replied with a muttered _hurry up_.

"Thanks Mycroft. You are a lifesaver. Catch you later." John hung up quickly on the surprised politician.

"Jane Eyre." Sherlock hit his head.

"Of _course_, Jane Eyre. How could I not think of that?"

"I don't know." John murmured, typing on his phone.

"Think about it on the way." John flung over his shoulder, racing for a taxi.

"No, John! We need a library!" Sherlock called, running after the doctor.

o0o

The two men sat in the back of a taxi, reading a battered copy of _Jane Eyre_.

"Abbot? What about Abbot?" Sherlock shrugged.

"It's an idea. Try it." John started typing furiously on his phone.

**Google Maps:** Abbot, London

**Results:** Abbot Street, London Borough of Hackney

"How could I not think of that?" Sherlock was still annoyed, muttering furiously.

"I don't know Sherlock! Consult it in that mind place of yours." Tapping his fingers of Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock paid no attention to the sandy haired man, staring out the window.

"We're here." Sherlock leaped out of the taxi, John tumbled out after the detective. They raced to the corner, Sherlock stopped suddenly, John nearly running into the back of him.

"What the hell Sherlock?" Sherlock pointed at the opposite wall.

"There's no street sign. So where's the next note?" John looked around.

"Maybe it's a flyer?" Sherlock raced down the street, leaving John standing on the road.

"Sherlock?" John shouted after the detective's retreating back. "SERLOCK!" A couple of passer's by turned and looked at him, muttering.

"Another Holmes fan. They still believe he's alive." They said, shaking their heads sadly. John glared after them, resisting the urge to run after them, to emphatically contradict them. To yell to the world that Sherlock, his Sherlock, was alive. That he was innocent. Sherlock chose the perfect moment to run back to him, not even slightly out of breath.

"There's nothing down there. It's got to be here. It's _got_ to be." Sherlock insisted, eyes blazing. John shrugged.

"Where else could it be? You've already taken off down the street." Sherlock's eyes were constantly moving, searching out for another elegantly written note. The detective stilled, staring above John's head.

"It's on the lamppost." John turned in the direction of Sherlock's gaze.

"How on earth are we going to get up there?" Sherlock crouched down.

"Oh no, I am _not_ getting on your back." Sherlock pulled a puppy eye's face. "No."

"Give me a lift up then." John huffed, but prepared to give Sherlock a leg up. Sherlock jumped into John's hands, and reached up to grab the note.

_23. 9AP. Well done, you've got this far. The wall you need doesn't give you a headache. Xx_

"What wall?" Sherlock looked confused, staring at the note in bafflement. John laughed, long and clear.

"You seriously can't crack this one?" Sherlock shook his head. John grinned.

"Harry Potter."

"Who?" John gawped.

"You've never heard of Harry Potter?" Sherlock continued to shake his head.

"Is he important?" John ran a hand through his short hair.

"He is the most well known kid on this planet. The Deathly Hallows?" Sherlock looked blank. "Order of the Phoenix? Prisoner of Azkaban? Philosopher's Stone?" Sherlock still continued to look blank. "What goes on in your head sometimes?"

"I probably deleted the information." John groaned.

"We are watching those films one day." Sherlock grinned.

"As long as you're there." John hugged him.

"I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock gave John a quick kiss.

"I hope not." John chuckled.

"You idiot. Anyway, we need to get to King's Cross." Sherlock frowned.

"Why King's..."

"Don't worry Sherlock. Just trust me."

o0o

They stopped at King's Cross, running into the station. Sherlock vaulted the barriers, John using his oyster card, cutting in the queues. He ran after the dark, billowing coat, darting in and out of men, women, kids.

Sherlock came to a stop, frantically looking about for John.

"Where is it?" John ran towards the overground station, across the bridge. Platform 7, Platform 8, Platform 9...

They raced along the platform, slowing down at every barrier.

"This is it!" John ran towards a barrier, where there were a few students gathered. A note was selotaped to the bottom corner. John grabbed it, turning away.

"Hey, you just can't do that! This is a sacred site!" A student, a young teenager, ginger hair, turned angrily to them. John turned to them.

"Don't worry, we're with the police." A dark haired girl crossed her arms.

"What would the police want to do with Platform 9¾?" Sherlock turned around.

"There is no such thing as Platform 9¾."

"Sherlock, don't destroy them. They think Platform 9¾ exists." The ginger and a brunette stared at him.

"Muggle." The brunette muttered. "Come on, they're just wasting our time." The three girls moved off, giving Sherlock and John dirty looks.

"Who were they?" Sherlock questioned.

"Harry Potter fans. They can be slightly obsessive." Sherlock stared in their direction.

"Why would people get obsessed by fictional characters? That's pointless." John shrugged.

"There exists such a thing as fanfiction. I suppose that is enough to sustain their imaginations." John sighed, eyebrows raised.

"What strange lives some teenagers lead." John nodded.

"I know. What does the note say?"

_23. W13. The stakes are raised. Don't blame me if you both don't survive the charge. Xx._


	8. The Truth Will Out

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Author's Note: End of the case guys! Lestrade makes his first appearance, and it's a return of the trio of Harry Potter fans! They wanted to have another appearance, and who was I to deny them. Again, sorry, I've used real places, I don't mean to offend anyone. Enjoy!**

The Truth Will Out

"How are the stakes raised?" John frowned, grabbing the note from Sherlock. Sherlock was moving his lips, fingers massaging his temples, eyes closed. "Sherlock?"

"John, I am concentrating."

"Sherlock, there are bloody LIVES at stake! Don't you understand that?" Sherlock turned to glare at the shorter man.

"Yes, I do. Very well. This is not the first time that lives have been at stake before John. Don't you remember _The 5 Pips_, as you so wittingly called it on your blog?" John pressed his mouth into a thin line.

"And it seems that you seem to forget about that! You don't care, do you?" John shouted, attracted stares.

"Will caring about them save them?" Sherlock retorted angrily.

"No."

"Then as I've said before, I will continue not to make that mistake." John gasped at the sheer audacity.

"You still believe that you don't care about people? What about Mrs Hudson? What about Lestrade. _What about me?_" Sherlock made an impatient noise.

"Of course I care about you John, of course I do. But these are people I've never met before. Why should I care? I know nothing about them. Do I want to? Not really. So why do you have this unnecessary need to humanise them?"

"BECAUSE THEY ARE HUMAN, SHERLOCK. THEY HAVE LIVES!" John screamed, losing all patience. More and more people were stopping and staring, muttering in amongst themselves. He could hear snippets: "Poor man, has he lost his medication?" "Why do they let them out when they're still unstable?" "What a racket?" _Strange._

"John." Sherlock sounded calm, collected. "You need to keep calm. Getting angry isn't going to help them." John took deep breaths, pinching his nose.

"Sorry." John muttered.

"It's okay. I was being harsh."

"No, I shouldn't have struck out."

"Don't worry." John looked up, and saw in Sherlock's eyes compassion. He gave a small smile.

"Do you know what the reference is to?" The crowd was parting, leaving only the three girls that argued with them earlier.

"'_Don't blame me if you both don't survive the charge.'_ I haven't a clue. It might be some sort of battle reference." Sherlock leaned against the wall. John saw the three girls having a hurried conversation in the corner of his eye, the brunette staring at him.

"'_Don't blame me if you both don't survive the charge.'_" John repeated, turning the words over in his mind.

"Excuse me." John turned to face the three girls.

"Hello." They were giving him curious looks. It was slightly freaking. Sherlock made an impatient noise at the back of his neck.

"Do you need any help? It's sounds like you are having trouble." The ginger questioned.

"Um, yes actually. Are you any good with book references?" Their eyes lit up.

"Brilliant." John grinned.

"Great. We've been given a clue, but we don't know what book it's from." The girls looked slightly confused.

"Give us the reference."

"'_Don't blame me if you both don't survive the charge.'_". A look of deep concentration appeared on their faces.

"I would say Lord of the Rings..." The dark-haired girl offered.

"We've already had that. I don't know if they would return to that."

"Shakespeare?" The brunette put out.

"Could be." John agreed.

"Anything else you could give us?" John scanned the note again.

"Salisbury." The ginger and the dark-haired looked towards the brunette.

"You know more about that area. Anything important?" The brunette made a face.

"Umm... The New Forest. The Cathedral. There is a lot of horses..." The brunette trailed off.

"Leonie?" The ginger questioned her friend.

"Salisbury Plain. Amy, Lizzie, Salisbury Plain." The two other's looked baffled, but John understood.

"Where they train the army?" Leonie nodded.

"Horses and Salisbury Plain. World War II. _War Horse._ Captain Nicholls and Captain Stewart, neither of them survived the charge!" Leonie looked delighted. John nearly punched the air.

"Thank you! Thanks so much! I'll tell Scotland Yard how great you are!" John was ecstatic. "What are your names?"

"Leonie McParland, Amy Thompson and Lizzie Andrews." John hugged them each in turn.

"You have helped Sherlock and I so much, I can't thank you enough." The girls looked at him strangely, but waved anyway when he and Sherlock ran off.

"Sherlock, we need to go to Salisbury Plain." Sherlock grinned, lacing his hand in with John's as they ran.

"I know, I heard." They laughed all the way out of the station.

o0o

John jumped out of the driver's seat. The detective ran towards Stonehenge, disregarding the queue for tickets, careening over the fence. They stood in the middle of the circle, peering at all the stones.

"What if it's not here?" John questioned.

"It will be."

"But what if it's not?"

"John, trust me. It'll be here." They continued to search, crawling and stretching.

"OY! You're not allowed up there!" A guide was trudging up the hill towards them.

"Sherlock, do you still have any of Lestrade's identification?" John flung at Sherlock, crawling around on his knees.

"Ummm... no." John banged his head against a stone.

"We're with the police!" The tour guide faltered.

"How do I know that?" John stood.

"Do you want me to call Scotland Yard?" The guide's face crumpled.

"Uh, no, uh, that's okay. Uh, take all the time you, um, need." The guide slowly backed away. Sherlock smiled.

"Well done." John grinned.

"It's handy I have Greg on speed dial now. And Mycroft." Sherlock started to laugh, then froze.

"You found a note?" Sherlock shook his head.

"It's been cut into the rock."

_SW8 4NB. The sequence is more than pages. Help._

John ran for the car, pulling out his phone.

"Greg? Greg!" A gasp sounded on the other end of the line.

"John? Where are you? Why do you want to know about Austen?"

"That's not important. We think that there are 41 people being held at the postcode SW8 4NB."

"How? Who's we?"

"Greg, just get there! We'll see you there in a couple of hours. Just **move**!" John hung up on the confused DI, as Sherlock jumped into the passenger seat.

"Battersea Power Station." John started the car.

"That's where we're going." John met Sherlock's grim face. "We're going to nail this bastard."

o0o

"Greg!" John's voice echoed, alerting the police officers of Scotland Yard to his presence.

"John! How did you know these people were here?"

"Sherlock. He got a letter through the post. Who was responsible?"

"Moriarty. What do you mean Sherlock?" John frowned.

"You've just caught Moriarty, and you are _playing games?" _Lestrade was gaping at John.

"We didn't catch Moriarty. He escaped. I'm not playing games. What do you mean, _Sherlock?_" John's face was slowly turning red. Sherlock made an exasperated noise next to him.

"What do you mean, _Moriarty escaped?"_

"We saw him disappearing when we arrived. We followed, but he gave us the slip. And why do you keep on saying Sherlock?" John gaped at Lestrade.

"Sherlock. Sherlock that is standing right next to me. The Sherlock that is standing _**there**_." John gestured at the detective. Lestrade shook his head, a strange expression on his face.

"John, there's no-one there."


	9. A World Without You

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Author's Note: I'm sorry. I really am. Don't hate me. **

A World Without You

Time paused. John was acutely aware of every breath, of every movement. The silver-haired DI was looking at him, an expression filled with pity, of sorrow.

"No." Lestrade gave a small half-smile.

"John, there is no-one there." John shook his head.

"No. No. Sherlock's there." He turned to look at the detective, shock plastered across his face.

Sherlock did nothing.

"Sher... Sherlock..." John breathed, his voice catching. "Please..."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." Sherlock moved towards John, pain laced in his eyes. John stepped backwards.

"Sherlock. Don't."

"John, please." Sherlock sounded heartbroken, pained. "Please."

"DON'T PLEASE ME!" John roared. The police officers still left jumped, shock in their faces.

"John..." Sherlock whispered. John put his hands over his ears.

"No. No no no you're not there _**why aren't you there**__?"_ John looked panicked, furious. His eyes widened.

"You... you're... you're fading. You're fading Sherlock." His hands fell, hanging loosely. Sherlock held up a hand. His pale complexion was nothing more than ashen, his dark curls turning to grey.

"No Sherlock. Sherlock. Look at me. Stay with me." John grabbed Sherlock's face, watching tears tracking their way down the milky glass cheeks.

"John, I don't want to go." John screwed up his eyes.

"I know, Sherlock, I know."

"I want to stay with you."

"I want you to stay." John wiped away a tear from Sherlock's cheekbone. "Don't go."

"John." Sherlock laughed, his voice hoarse. "I love you." John smiled, his vision blurring.

"I love you too, Sherlock. I love you I love you I love you." John's voice faded out. He felt a kiss on his forehead. He looked up, to catch a glimpse of the brilliant man, his Sherlock. His hands fell to his sides.

He wasn't there.

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock, come back. I need you. I don't want to be without you. Sherlock, please. Don't leave me. _

He raised his arm, dragging it across his face, trying to scrub away the hot tears.

"John." A voice sounded behind him, too high, not Sherlock's. "John." The voice sounded sorry, compassionate. He heard pity.

He didn't want anyone's pity. He just wanted Sherlock.

John stalked out of the room, ignoring the protests, ignoring the cries of "John!" He needed to breath fresh air, to feel wind on his face, to feel _something_.

That was something no-one could deny him.

o0o

He arrived in Hyde Park, hands shoved in pockets, eyes cast towards the skies. He passed people, families, groups. Adults, elderly, students, children. All with lives, with hopes, with people to care. He'd had that once. All of that fell off a rooftop, landing on the concrete, shattering his world, not just his best friend's skull.

_Can you hear me Sherlock? Do you understand? Because listen to this._

_There is no world without you in it._

He sat down on bench, tattered, weatherworn. A _Daily Mail_ lay beside him, fluttering in the wind. He picked it up, scanning the headline.

_**The Avengers succeed again!**_

Bloody Avengers. They were everywhere. Most papers had an Avengers section. The world had gone crazy when they found out that Clint Barton and one of the Avengers handlers, Coulson, had been seeing each other for years. It had been splashed everywhere. It had been right after Sherlock's fall. Headlines of _**The fall of a Genius**_ turned into _**The Cellist in Portland – Clint Barton**_.

Bloody superheroes. They had nothing, _**nothing**_, on Sherlock. Sherlock was brilliant. He was a genius. Yes, they had Tony Stark. But the man was a jackass. Sherlock didn't need a fancy suit. He didn't need any of that. He just needed to be himself.

It had driven him to his death. All those supposed _super_ people, and they were still alive. And Sherlock was dead. His Sherlock.

Could they stop that? Would they even try?

A sob bubbled up in John's throat, choking him. Suffocating.

He heaved himself off the bench, stumbling slightly on the path. He wandered aimlessly, staring ahead, staring at nothing. He eventually pulled himself to a stop, standing on a secluded piece of grass. He felt his phone go off, he ignored it. They'd just want to know where he was, take him home. Like a naughty child that got lost.

John put a hand round to his back, and felt the metal of his pistol. He smiled.

_I said there was no world that didn't have you in it. Well, shall we put that to the test?_

He looked up into the darkening sky. Images flashed in his mind.

He and Harry running round their back garden, he was 5, she was 8. Winning a science prize at school, his parents looked so proud. He got accepted into University, he got his letter, he was going to be a doctor. Mucking around with the boys in Afghanistan, they were laughing so hard, they almost forgot to breath. Getting shot, thinking that no-one was coming for him. Returning to England, moping around. Meeting Sherlock for the first time. Their 'date' at Angelo's. Their first encounter with Moriarty at the pool side. John being _really_ jealous of Irene Adler. Going to Baskerville. Thinking he was going to be eaten by a mutant dog. Moriarty in court. Sherlock falling. Sherlock falling. John sitting on a rooftop, mumbling about ghosts. Lestrade and Mycroft, still putting up with him. Sherlock coming back. Their first kiss. Lying with Sherlock in bed in the morning light. Sherlock at Stonehenge, twirling about, his scarf and coat flailing. Sherlock fading underneath his fingertips. That last "I love you."

John laughed, long and clear. He gazed around at the landscape, enthralled by the sudden beauty. He took out his pistol, and placed it over an artery. He saw a dark figure walk towards him, stilling suddenly.

"Goodbye Sherlock." He whispered, letting the wind carry his words. He pulled the trigger.

He fell towards the ground, hitting it with force. He could feel his hand being quickly coated in a thick liquid. Was it staining his jumper? Strong hands were suddenly underneath his neck, pulling him towards a body.

"John? John? Talk to me!" The voice sounded frantic, desperate. He felt tears drop onto his face. He smiled up into the face.

"Tell him..." He choked off.

"Tell who? Tell who John?" The voice soothed him.

"Tell Sherlock... Tell Sherlock I love him." He heard a sharp intake of breath.

"I will. I will, don't worry." The voice sounded broken. Heartbroken. John smiled.

"He loves you too, John. He loves you too." Were the last words he remembers hearing.

He slowly closed his eyes, and let darkness take him for the last time.


	10. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I do not own, nor profit from.**

**Author's Note: This is the final chapter! I sat there and cried when I pressed save for the final time. It was like your child growing up and leaving home. I quickly had to start on something else. This chapter is only an epilogue, so it ties up all loose ends. Again, last time I can say I am open to prompts! Thank you everyone who has read this story, YOU ARE ALL FANTASTIC! Thanks for all the reviews, the story alerts and story favourites, they made me really happy! I will be putting up a new story in the next week called "My Heart Lies Next To Yours", which is Avenger Themed. So, thank you again, and for the last time, enjoy!**

Epilogue

Sherlock stuck his hand into the box of cold case files. Lestrade had rung him up this morning, complaining that the boxes were gathering dust. Sherlock glanced at the date. 1987. Of course there would be dust. What was Scotland Yard coming to?

Lestrade didn't even need him to work on the cold cases. Most were too simple, some too elaborate, none interesting enough. Lestrade may have rung him in a fit of loneliness. When it transpired that Mycroft had had a hand in the "quest" Moriarty had laid for Sherlock and John, Lestrade just packed his bags and left without a word.

It's always the quiet ones you have to watch out for. He had been told that on countless occasions.

Lestrade had temporarily moved into 221B, echoes of John and his grief only a few months beforehand. He'd just gotten his own place, not far from Scotland Yard. Nice, easy.

Mycroft had tried to contact Sherlock. Sherlock continually ignored him. He had been sorely tempted to put his phone in the washing machine, watching it spinning to its doom, but it wasn't the phone's fault. Mycroft would just find out his new one anyway. With or without Lestrade.

Molly had turned up at the flat a couple of days ago. He'd gone to Tesco's – John had shouted at him to get the milk for once – and she was standing on the front doorstep.

"John could have let you in." Sherlock commented. Molly flushed, her eyes sad.

"I wanted to wait for you." Sherlock gave a small quirk of the lips. It seems that everyone wanted to speak to him now. Never John.

John called down the stairs now, unintelligible over the sound of the water rushing in the shower.

"Pardon?" He heard the water quieten.

"I said, do you want Chinese tonight?" Sherlock grinned.

"Yes please."

They were happy. They were dysfunctional. He knew that. But they loved each other anyway. They lived in their own little world, away from life, away from people, just them. They liked it that way.

Sherlock still has nightmares. He still watches John bleed out underneath his hands, whispering those last words "I love you", even if John didn't know it was him. He heard the screams of the sirens, mingled with his own, _too late too late_. He watched them load a body into the ambulance. Not a patient. He remembers the hospital, the stench of disinfectant, where they just realliterated what he already knew.

"As of 19.53 today, Dr. John Watson has been pronounced dead at scene."

He remembers the numbness, the sympathy. He hadn't wanted it. He hadn't wanted any of it. But John would have chided him for not being sociable. Not being understanding.

"Why should I be understanding? I'm the one whose lost someone!" John crossed his arms.

"I'm still here." Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"I know you are here. They don't know you are though." John smiled.

"I came back for you. Not for them." Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man.

"I love you." He murmured into the shorter man's hair. John laughed into Sherlock's chest.

"I know you do." He leaned up for a kiss. "I know you do."

Sherlock smiled down at his partner. Yes, it was dysfunctional. Yes, he was dating someone that no-one else knew existed. But it was his life. It was his perfect, fucked up life.

And he didn't care.

He could live with John forever.

Because he believed in ghosts too.


End file.
